


Azteca Tacos II

by cincoflex



Series: Azteca Tacos [2]
Category: Murphy Brown (TV)
Genre: Eventual Romance, F/M, Politics as Usual, adorable idiots in action
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-05 02:36:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17316470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cincoflex/pseuds/cincoflex
Summary: Avery and Xochitl get closer. Neither one of them knows what they're doing.





	Azteca Tacos II

Azteca Tacos II

**Xochi**

Lucrezia didn’t want to go to the march, but she didn’t want me going alone either, so for two days she grumbled about how stupid politics were and how I needed to keep a low profile if I wanted to hang onto my job. I let her buzz around me, ignoring her for the most part and keeping my opinions to myself.

The Seredy brothers were going. Both of them had immigrated to the US in the late Fifties and were citizens now, but they had strong views about the process and felt it was important to go. I loved them for it, too. Two big bearded Hungarians in their seventies, generally quiet in public but dedicated. They were going with their bowling league of all things.

I told Lucrezia that I would stay with the league and under the protection of the Seredys if that would help. She finally agreed and I texted Avery to be on the lookout for a pair of lumberjacks.

Since it was after Thanksgiving but before Christmas the weather was colder and I wore a kente stole Dad had given me for making green belt a few years ago. I knew it would help Avery find me, and it had the added bonus of being warm as well. I headed off with the brothers, listening to their critique of the current White House furniture in detail. Apparently they disapproved of the faux Chippendale style currently in use in the Oval Office, calling the design shoddy and the fabric ‘like a faded circus tent.’ Hearing them diss the furniture was hilarious, and I felt like it was going to be a terrific day. The rest of the bowling league was great as well.

All of them were over fifty and a mixed group of nuts--women and men, some Vietnamese, a few Italian and one lady--Suzette--was from Ghana. They’d all met in an English as a second language class back in the day and apparently decided they liked each other enough to hang out together a few weekends of the month.

The very definition of a support group I guess. Anyway we stuck together, carrying a few signs about how the legacy of the Melting Pot was still alive, and I got a kick that there were in six languages: English, Spanish, Hungarian, Vietnamese, Italian and French. Made us all stand out, especially with the Seredy Brothers flanking us--it felt like having ZZ Top as our bodyguards. We picked up other people along the way and I had to jog a little to keep up since I was shorter than everyone else.

We started walking, taking up our own section of the march, having fun with the supportive people who came to watch and ignoring the unsupportive people. Hard to say which group was larger, actually, but I know which one I disliked more. Even with the Seredy brothers nearby, it was hard to walk by people jeering and looking at you with hate. I tried not to take it personally; I was here for a cause I believed in, here to support what I knew to be right.

Still hard, though.

Avery found us, making his way through a group of nuns off to the side of us and falling into step between me and Jan, grinning. “Morning, Ms Franklin!”

“Good Morning Mr. Brown; good to see you out here today!”

Jan Seredy was eyeing the two of us with a sort of stern amusement. “This is a reporter, yes?”

“Yep. Here to report,” Avery told him. “This is important to the world.”

“Yes, that is right and you have it,” Jan told him, nodding. “We all come from somewhere and many of us, not here.”

“Ah, yeah,” Avery agreed, and shot me one of those amused looks I was starting to recognize. He spoke to Jan as we walked, and I listened in, keeping an eye on the crowd and an ear out for trouble.

It came, but not from people. As we kept going, I was aware of something drifting down all around us. Snow. It started lightly falling but got thicker, and by the time we reached the square it was coming down in fat flakes, piling up on the route and making the day much colder. Some people cheered, but others, like me groaned and tightened our scarves. We might be able to stand up to the police, but the weather had the advantage.

And if it got particularly heavy or strong, we’d have to end things early, which I suppose would please both the police and the White House, damn it.

**Avery**

It doesn’t snow this early in DC very often, but when it does, the entire demeanor of the city changes. People get grumpier and all of a sudden getting home takes on a higher level of priority. I could feel the shift in the crowd, and saw the looks on the bystander faces as well--this event was going to shut down pretty fast. It’s one thing to have air time, and another to put up with one more layer of resistance. From the smell in the air, we were in for a few inches at least.

They actually walking slowed once we reached Lafayette Square, and I looked at Xochi, who was shivering. “So . . . maybe it would be a good idea to . . . head back?”

She nodded, and tapped Jan Seredy’s arm. “Jan, it might be time to call it a day.”

He looked at his brother and then the other members of the league before nodding. “Igen. Suzette is cold and so are you.”

I noted people drifting away in little groups and my natural instinct to follow and ask after-questions tingled but since I wasn’t officially on a story and because Xochi was next to me, bouncing from one foot to the other, I held back. “Hot coffee,” I suggested.

“Yes,” she agreed, and after a few minutes talking to Jan Seredy, she looked at me. “Avery, can you take me home? The group is going to have lunch and I don’t want to be a ninth wheel.”

I laughed and offered her my arm. “Latch on.”

Xochi got the reference. “Sure, Indy,” she laughed and we headed north as I started to call for an Uber.

“Might be a while,” I warned her. “With this crowd.”

She was going to say something when I heard someone else call my name.

“Avery!”

I looked up and around, not spotting him at first, but then I saw the big-shouldered man limping my way, looking . . . old.

For a minute I couldn’t say anything, watching him make his way towards us, his eyes locked on mine and I realized I should have expected him here. A protest like this would be right up his alley; a natural fit for his philosophical convictions and political activism.

There’s nothing more galling than being on the same community wavelength with someone you personally detest. I had to put a good face on it though; things were what they were.

“Jake,” I finally managed, trying not to sound as bitter as I felt. “Hi.” I held out my hand and on the surface it looked like I was offering it to shake but he and I both knew it was to hold him back.

He slowed and stopped, looking from my hand to me, hiding the hurt but not before I saw it. “Avery,” he repeated, this time a little more slowly, shifting his cane to shake hands with me. “How’s . . . your mother?”

“Great,” I told him, giving him a big smile. “Kicking butt with her new show as I’m sure you know.”

“Good, good,” he replied, still looking at me. “Glad you see you out here.”

“Yeah.” Next to me I could feel Xochi watching us and for a moment I wanted to push past him; leave him behind but . . . I couldn’t. Much as I wanted to. “Ah, Jake, this is Xochitl Franklin, a friend of mine; Xochi, this is Jake Lowenstein.”

Another little flare of hurt in his eyes but he didn’t comment, just shifted his grip from my hand to hers, smiling a little. “Beautiful name.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, kind of subdued. I guess she caught some of the chill between us and moved a little closer to me. That shouldn’t have meant as much to me as it did.

But it did. I slipped an arm around her.

“Good to see the next generation taking a stand on the big issues,” Jake nodded at me. “Runs in the family.”

I’m sure he meant it as a compliment; an attempt to brag about a little of what he assumed we shared--but I didn’t take it that way.

“Yeah, I was raised right,” I assured him, pleased to see the remark sting a little. 

His face tightened. “You _do_ remind me of Murphy,” Jake nodded. “Sharp.”

“How’s Ben?” I asked. Regardless of how I felt about Jake, I was fond of my half-brother, who at least called once in a while.

His expression brightened a little. “Good,” he replied, “Still in school, doing really well. Was doing to talk to him tonight in fact. I’ll let him know I saw you.”

“Thanks.” I took a breath. “So, it was good talking with you but we need to get moving.”

He looked up at the sky and nodded. “Yeah. Give my best to your mother, Avery. Nice meeting you Ms Franklin.”

Jake patted my shoulder and I nodded, guiding Xochi away as he headed in the opposite direction. She squeezed my arm comfortingly and I took a breath, checking my phone again.

“So who was that?” she asked in an undertone.

“That ,” I sighed, “Is my biological father.”

Xochi looked up at me, not saying anything as we worked our way through the thinning crowds. When we reached the street, I led us to the corner I’d given as a pick up point for our ride. 

“He’s generally a good guy; very active in political dissent and dedicated to changing the world,” I murmured, “but we’re not . . . close.”

“I can tell,” she murmured. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Yeah, well for a long time I wasn’t,” I admitted. “He made choices I didn’t _get_ to make about our relationship. As a kid I didn’t have much say in the matter. There was a time when I didn’t care because I _had_ a dad.”

Xochi’s gaze made me take another breath and continue. “ _Peter_ was my dad. Loved me, did and said all the right things that let me know he cared . . . all that dad stuff. Then he died. That was bad enough, but a little after that Jake started making attempts to reconnect and I dunno . . . it was too soon and I was right at an age when all I could see was someone trying to reclaim a spot that wasn’t his, you know? It’s been years and I know I should probably get over it. It’s not Jake’s fault Peter died. But there’s still that, that _lit-tle_ resentment inside that flares up whenever I see him.”

“Avery,” she murmured. “Damn. I’m sorry.”

I looked at her and tried to smile. “Not my best side I’m afraid. Working on it.”

**Xochi**

I’d heard about Peter Hunt.

After the first few meetings with Avery, when I knew he was Murphy Brown’s son, like, THE Murphy Brown, I looked them up. The internet is a useful thing that way. I saw she was Peter Hunt’s widow, and that in turn must have meant that he was Avery’s dad. And I’d listened to Avery talk about Peter before so the natural assumption was, well, you know. 

So finding out that someone _else_ was involved kind of threw me for a bit, especially since it still bothered Avery. It’s hard on kids, I know. Me, I was the odd one out in my neighborhood--my parents were happily married and still are. A lot of my friends had single-parent homes, and some had more than one step-parent over time. I once teased my folks about being the exception and they just rolled their eyes.

“You have no idea, chiquita, of what we went through to get here,” Mom grumbled. “The flak I got for loving a _cocolo_? Intense, little girl.”

My dad snickered. “The only reason your _abuela_ even let me in the door was because I’d aced Spanish in high school.”

“And you liked her _lengua con arroz_ ,” Mom added, shuddering. “Sacrifices were MADE, _Xochi mi paloma_. Keep that in mind.”

And I did. As I got older, my parents were straightforward about some of the difficulties I’d face, socially. About how I might be too brown to be black, and too black to be Latina. About how finding someone to love might be a challenge. 

Anyway, I understood a little about resentment. On the other hand, the fact that Avery knew it about himself . . . well that was a selling point. He wasn’t in denial about his conflicted feelings and I kind of admired that. Still, seeing Mr. Happy Go Lucky with real issues made him a little more likable to me. I’m a sucker that way I guess.

Because we both were chilled I invited him up for lunch, offering some homemade black bean soup. The offer won him over and I led the way up the fire escape stairs because the Seredys weren’t back yet and I’d agreed not to unlock the shop if they were out. I ushered Avery in. “There you go--loft, workshop, home.”

“Ohhh,” he grinned, looking around. “Niiice.”

I had to agree: the Seredys had been really accommodating when it came to making the second story habitable. They’d built wooden accordion screens so I could close off my study, and rewired the old workshop area so it functioned as a small but serviceable kitchen. Out in the main area I had a sort of living room island around a Franklin stove, and a semi-studio of art in the works. Beyond that, fenced in by beaded curtains was my bedroom and the only other walled space was the bathroom.

Not too shabby, even if the whole place was one big rectangle. I went into the kitchen while Avery looked around. I wondered how long it would take him to get comfortable. From the way he made a beeline to the bookcases, not long--I grinned to myself.

“So what will you write about the march?” I called over my shoulder to him, pouring the soup from the tupperware into big mugs. “Who did you talk to?”

“Quite a number of people before I spotted you--two families with small kids; an elderly man; a young gay couple . . .” Avery told me in a distracted voice. “Was hoping for a good cross-section of people for the best representation.”

“Commendable. Do you want corn chips with your soup?”

“Sure. Hey, is this painting . . .”

“Yes, it’s exactly what you think it is,” I replied, knowing full well which one he meant. “It’s the Kislak Oyohualli pendant in oils and yes many experts in my field have identified that teardrop carving as a glorified vagina, symbolic of sexual pleasure.”

I risked a look over my shoulder in Avery’s direction; he was staring at the painting in fascination.

“Aztec?”

“Toltec. The civilization before the Aztec,” I murmured. “Saw the original when it was on exhibition at the Getty and it was just so . . . sensual. The idea that it was some warrior’s adornment thrilled me.” I stopped. “Sorry, get a little carried away sometimes. Anyway, I did the painting.”

“It’s . . . gorgeous,” he finally turned to glance at me and I was tickled by how pink Avery’s face had gotten. “Simple but strong.”

“The forge on which mankind is built,” I agreed. “Let’s eat.”

I knew the soup would be good and it pleased me to see Avery enjoy it as we talked about cooking and restaurants and dining disasters. Downstairs I heard the Seredys opening shop, and outside the snow got thicker. I sat at one end of the big sofa facing Avery, who was at the other end, both of us basking in the warmth of the stove.

“Thanks,” he murmured as our conversation wound down. “The soup was superb.”

“Thank you,” I responded. “I don’t get to show off my pozole negro too often. And hey--I don’t mean to chase you off, but I’ve got lecture notes to type up.”

**Avery**

I knew I needed to go but part of me didn’t want to. The coziness, the good food, the good company . . . I’d missed this. Living with Mom made sense, financially, but sometimes hanging out with someone a little closer to my own age and interests had appeal too.

And in Xochi’s case, maybe more. I liked seeing her in her own environment, comfortable and confident. I liked all the clues to who she was around us: the painting, the books, the half-finished art. I wanted to putter around and find out more about her but now wasn’t the time for my inner reporter to snoop, so I sighed and got up, carrying our dishes to the kitchenette.

“I need to get going as well,” I told her with regret as my Lyft notification let me know they’d be arriving in fifteen minutes. “I’ve got copy to get ready and I want to see what footage they’ve shot of the march. But I’d like to repay the lunch at some point . . . if that’s good with you.”

She cocked her head at me, grinning. “Like a date?”

I nodded, feeling that spike of mixed delight and terror deep inside, poking around in the soup. “Ah, yeah. Like that. Exactly.”

Xochi smiled. “Okay. This week’s kind of booked for me, but I may have Sunday open.”

“Sunday’s good,” I assured her. “What would you like to do?”

“Gee, it’s a real pity there aren’t any museums or art galleries around here,” she mock-sighed. “Just a damn _shame_ the nation’s capital doesn’t have any sort of cultural collections.”

I laughed. “Okay, okay, point made. I’m not sure what you’ve already seen or want to see, so the ball’s in your court.”

“We could go to the zoo.”

“The zoo?” I stared at her as I reached for my jacket. “Seriously?”

“Avery Brown, when was the last time you went to the zoo?” Xochi asked, coming over and handing me my scarf. I let her loop it around my neck, bending down so she could.

“When I was nine,” I admitted. “On a class trip.” The whole idea seemed ridiculous, but Xochi was grinning at me and this close up, I didn’t care.

“Then it’s time to go back. We’ll get some fresh air, some sunshine, take selfies with pandas and have overpriced hot dogs. It will be _fun_.”

“Fun,” I repeated uncertainly. “Our definitions are a little different there.”

“Oh I don’t think so,” she assured me with a smile. “This one is just . . . off the beaten path. And if it’s too cold or too snowy we can always change plans.”

“Fair enough,” I agreed, feeling amused. I thought we’d be taking the fire escape out, but she waved to the closet, which turned out to be a service elevator down to the Seredy’s workshop. 

The scent of wood chips hit me; the Seredy brothers were at the far end of the shop, piecing together a sideboy, and gave us a distracted wave as we stepped out. I looked around at all the worktables and piled lumber. “Doesn’t the sound of the saws bother you?”

Xochi shook her head. “I’m usually not here during the day, and they don’t work the weekends.” She walked me to the big wooden door and stepped out with me to the porch under the awning. 

She hugged me and I hugged back, savoring the sensation. It was too cold to have Xochi wait with me and I started to tell her that, but she rose up on her tiptoes and pressed her cheek against mine. “I’m fine . . .”

A car honked; my ride was in the parking lot.

Xochi turned to me as I turned to her . . . 

I kissed her.

**Xochi**

So I made it back inside, took the elevator up and managed to get to the sofa before giving a little whoop. And I wasn’t sure if it was because I was thrilled or because I was taken by surprise but either way the shift of interpersonal dynamics was now a Thing.

I got kissed. I kissed back.

I was going to hyperventilate if I didn’t calm the fuck down. 

It’s amazing how we can lie to ourselves and say we didn’t see this coming, that such an act was going to happen in the future, or other bullshit like that. At some point my physical self decided--probably while we were sharing soup and making terrible jokes--that I was ready for this man. That I wanted this man up close in my personal space. 

And I could see why. Avery Brown had a lot going for him, not only in the brains and personality department, which I’d learned over time, but also in the physical one too. He was tall, and big, and smelled terrific. I liked how curly his beard was, and how the cowlick at his forehead made his bangs curl up. All that registered unconsciously, or maybe subconsciously with me.

I took a deep breath. “Okay. So you like him,” I told myself. “That’s normal. He’s . . . a likable guy.”

Immediately my libido snickered. //Oh you MORE than like him, sister. Admit it.//

I grabbed one of the pillows, squeezing it. “Like is still a reasonable assessment,” I growled.

//Un-huh.// my libido taunted. //How about I help you imagine what he’s like in bed? Acres of hot skin, probably hung, and I’m sure he knows how to use that tongue of his for more than talking---//

“Shut UP!” I blurted to myself, and promptly giggled, burying my face in the pillow. “Now is not the time! You’ve got three pages of notes about the basalt carvings of Chichen Itza to write along with the accompanying formative assessment. That’s what you should be working on!”

//Sure, you go do that. I’ll just be in the back of your mind, putting together a couple of filthy fantasies you can indulge in later tonight. The vibrator has fresh batteries, right?//

I fought a smirk, got up and plunked myself down in front of my laptop. “Work!” I muttered. “Mental porn is fun, but we do have bills to pay.”

It’s terrible when you can hear your own thoughts laughing at you.

 

Somehow I managed to get both the notes and assessment done when my phone rang--Mom.  
“Aye Chiquita! You’re on tv!” she chirped at me. “Along with Jan!”

“Yeah?” I blurted. “What channel?”

“CNC,” Mom told me. “Just shots of the crowd but that kente stands out! Papi loves it.”

“We didn’t stay long-- by the time we got to the square it started to snow,” I told her.

“I hear that happens in places outside California,” she teased. “Who was the man next to you? The tall one?”

Trust Mom to pick up on that. “Ah, that’s a friend of mine.”

“Okay good. How is Jan doing? And his brother?” she asked.

We chatted for a while and she passed the phone to dad, who told me he was proud I’d gone out for this particular cause, and to use the kente around my face if the cops ever used tear gas on the crowd. 

“And film it,” he reminded me. “One of the best defenses is video validation. The Man’s _got_ to know people are watching. People are recording.”

“Yes, Dad, I know, but I’m not Umar Lee, okay?”

“I know Baby, I just . . . you stay safe, hear?” Dad reminded me in a gentler voice. “Just . . . stay safe.”

 

**Avery**

I didn’t panic, but the Lyft driver kept checking his rearview mirror and finally asked me if I was okay. 

“Yeah, sorry. Just a little . . . restless,” I lied. Tried to smile and show I was harmless while deep in my own thoughts I was freaking out a little. I’d kissed Xochi. I. Kissed. Xochi.

Xochi. 

I’d kissed her. 

Annnnnnnd I liked it. Like, really liked it. If the driver hadn’t honked when he did I probably would still BE kissing Xochi.

Damn the promptness of this alternative transportation option!

I forced myself to relax, limb by limb and closed my eyes, trying to get a fucking grip because this wasn’t my usual post-kiss sort of response. I mean I’ve kissed people. Lots of people, as recently as . . . four months ago? 

I thought back to my last date with Georgie. “Six months,” I realized, sadly. “Geez.”

“Did you say something?” the driver wanted to know. 

I shook my head. “Just talking to myself.”

Six months. Half a damned year. No wonder all systems were on high alert here. I mean I’d been doing, ah, maintenance. Attending to personal needs, as the euphemism goes. We all do that; purging the pipe; taking care of business; hell, jerking off.

All part of being a guy.

But there’s a huge difference between your own touch and someone else’s. And much as you can caress, stroke and tease, you can’t really _kiss_ yourself. That’s the first gift from another person and that’s why it’s so . . . personal.

So important. 

A kiss is a connection to someone else; an intimate invitation to a relationship. Even one-night stands hang on that enticement. And I’d been kiss . . . starved for half a year.

Hence the adrenaline spike. The restlessness. 

The erection.

I focused on more mundane thoughts, willing my rebellious body to behave and sulkily it did, though it took the remainder of the ride home to do so. I paid the driver, greeted Benny, who was pleased to see me, and ran into Mom, who gave me a Look.

“You’re on the news,” she told me. “CNC got some really nice footage of you with the Uni-bomber twins.”

“Those are the Seredy brothers,” I told her. “Came to the US in the Fifties and became naturalized citizens. Kind of nice to see the old guard on the front lines.”

She gave a nod of agreement. “Good angle,” Mom admitted. “Going to write it up?”

“Yep, which I should be doing right now,” I told her and made for the stairs.

“Good. We’ll talk about the cute girl you were chatting with later,” Mom added as I froze.

I looked at her; she grinned a little. “Unless you want to talk _now_ , that is.”

“I have work, Mom,” I pointed out.

“So go work,” she told me with a shrug I didn’t buy for a minute. 

I leaned over the railing. “I chatted with a lot of people by the way. Parents, Dreamers, a gay couple . . . and Jake.”

That threw her off the trail. “ _Jake_?”

“Yep. He’s in town, probably staying at the Marriott. Bet he’d be a great interview about the march, what with his background and insights,” I tossed back.

I made my getaway while she struggled with that, settling in at my desk and pulling out my laptop. Regretfully I set my phone face-down; I needed to focus. Even as I did so, I quickly tapped out a text.

To Georgie.

//Help? I kissed a girl and I liked it.//

Within a minute I got a reply. //If that girl was the same one beating your ass at dressing cookies I’d say you’re in luck!//

//Gi-gie, I’ve been out of the loop a while. Is it common to freak a little?//

//Yep. Also to touch yourself, or so I hear.//

//Not helpful.//

//Au contraire. I’m at work, but call me after three and spill. I need details if you want romance assistance, Doll boy.//

I sent a smiley and got to work feeling a little better.


End file.
